Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition intoLincolnshire. My guardian1 had made up his mind not to lose sightof me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house, so he accompaniedus, and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath ofair, and every scent2, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass,and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautifuland wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was myfirst gain from my illness. How little I had lost, when the wideworld was so full of delight for me.
My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on ourway down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her aletter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hourof our arrival at our destination, on a delightful3 evening in theearly summer-time.
If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand,and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could nothave been more considered in it. So many preparations were madefor me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my littletastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozentimes before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better thanthat, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley'sdelight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, andCharley had exhausted4 her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions,I was as tranquilly5 happy as I ought to have been. It was a greatcomfort to be able to say to myself after tea, "Esther, my dear, Ithink you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write anote of thanks to your host." He had left a note of welcome forme, as sunny as his own face, and had confided6 his bird to my care,which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly Iwrote a little note to him in London, telling him how all hisfavourite plants and trees were looking, and how the mostastonishing of birds had chirped7 the honours of the house to me inthe most hospitable8 manner, and how, after singing on my shoulder,to the inconceivable rapture9 of my little maid, he was then atroost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether dreaming or no Icould not report. My note finished and sent off to the post, Imade myself very busy in unpacking10 and arranging; and I sentCharley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no morethat night.
For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to havemy own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must beovercome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afreshwhen I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, if youare to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolvedto keep it, but I sat down for a little while first to reflect uponall my blessings11. And then I said my prayers and thought a littlemore.
My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger morethan once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook itout, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was alittle muslin curtain drawn13 across it. I drew it back and stoodfor a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that Icould see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at thereflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly14 itlooked at me. I was very much changed--oh, very, very much. Atfirst my face was so strange to me that I think I should have putmy hands before it and started back but for the encouragement Ihave mentioned. Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knewthe extent of the alteration15 in it better than I had done at first.
It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothingdefinite, and I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.
I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but Ihad been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heavenwas so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bittertears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quitethankfully.
One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before Iwent to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they werewithered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fondof. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I hada right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whetherit was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous tohim, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would neverknow, because I could have loved him--could have been devoted17 tohim. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if Itreasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably pastand gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light.
I hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.
I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before theglass when Charley came in on tiptoe.
"Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting. "Is that you?""Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. "And I am verywell indeed, and very happy."I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greaterweight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. Ishall not conceal18, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quiteconquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frameof mind stayed by me faithfully.
Wishing to be fully16 re-established in my strength and my goodspirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of planswith Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were tobe out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be outagain before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden aftertea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hilland explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. Asto restoratives and strengthening delicacies19, Mr. Boythorn's goodhousekeeper was for ever trotting20 about with something to eat ordrink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in thepark but she would come trotting after me with a basket, hercheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequentnourishment. Then there was a pony21 expressly for my riding, achubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes whocould canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was atreasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddockwhen I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. Wearrived at such a capital understanding that when he was joggingwith me lazily, and rather obstinately22, down some shady lane, if Ipatted his neck and said, "Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canterwhen you know how much I like it; and I think you might oblige me,for you are only getting stupid and going to sleep," he would givehis head a comical shake or two and set off directly, while Charleywould stand still and laugh with such enjoyment23 that her laughterwas like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs his name, but itseemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once weput him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly24 through thegreen lanes for five miles; but all at once, as we were extollinghim to the skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have beenaccompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing25 little gnats26 thathad been hovering27 round and round his ears the whole way withoutappearing to advance an inch, and stopped to think about it. Isuppose he came to the decision that it was not to be borne, for hesteadily refused to move until I gave the reins28 to Charley and gotout and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of goodhumour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear againstmy sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, "Now, Stubbs, I feelquite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride alittle while," for the moment I left him, he stood stock stillagain. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; andin this order we returned home, to the great delight of thevillage.
Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages,I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see usgo by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that therewere faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of thegrown people before and almost all the children, but now the verysteeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among mynew friends was an old old woman who lived in such a littlethatched and whitewashed29 dwelling30 that when the outside shutter31 wasturned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. Thisold lady had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter tohim for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in whichshe had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its oldplace. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderfulachievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the wayfrom Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take thepicture all the way to America, and from America would write again,I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested with the merit of the whole system.
Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so manychildren, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation inso many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writinglong letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to thinkabout that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. IfI did think of it at odd moments now and then, I had only to bebusy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should oncewhen a child said, "Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady nowlike she used to be?" But when I found the child was not less fondof me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pityingprotection in its touch, that soon set me up again. There weremany little occurrences which suggested to me, with greatconsolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerateand delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particularlytouched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when amarriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign theregister.
The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude crossfor his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I hadknown the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiestgirl in the place, but as having quite distinguished32 herself in theschool, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise.
She came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love andadmiration stood in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow,miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and Iwouldn't shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, Ithought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labouringman's daughter!
The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had everblown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had comeinto my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiantand so rosy33; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundlythe whole night.
There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of ChesneyWold where a seat had been erected34 commanding a lovely view. Thewood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight,and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that Irested there at least once every day. A picturesque35 part of theHall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from thishigher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend in theDedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting36 forit, mingled37 with the view and gave it something of a mysteriousinterest in addition to its real charms. There was a bank here,too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it was a dailydelight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much tothe spot as I did.
It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the houseor never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard onmy arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incuriousor uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat inthis place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo likea footstep really did resound38 at times, as the story said, upon thelonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which LadyDedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping mefrom the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her faceand figure were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot saythat they repelled39 me from it, though something did. For whateverreason or no reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the dayat which my story now arrives.
I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble40, andCharley was gathering41 violets at a little distance from me. I hadbeen looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonryafar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said tohaunt it when I became aware of a figure approaching through thewood. The perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, andthe shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much moreintricate to the eye, that at first I could not discern what figureit was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--alady's--Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I satwith a much quicker step, I observed to my surprise, than was usualwith her.
I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almostwithin speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen tocontinue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless.
Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty42, not so much by herquick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the greatchange in her manner and the absence of her haughty43 self-restraint,as by a something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed ofwhen I was a little child, something I had never seen in any face,something I had never seen in hers before.
A dread44 and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. LadyDedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what Ihad known her.
"Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, nowadvancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have beenvery ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it."I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than Icould have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me herhand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance45 with the enforcedcomposure of her features, deepened the fascination46 thatoverpowered me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.
"You are recovering again?" she asked kindly47.
"I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock.""Is this your young attendant?""Yes.""Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?""Charley," said I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow youdirectly."Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet48 andwent her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the seatbeside me.
I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I sawin her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.
I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, Icould not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violentand wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But whenshe caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me,compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell downon her knees and cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am yourwicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!"--when I saw herat my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt,through all my tumult49 of emotion, a burst of gratitude50 to theprovidence of God that I was so changed as that I never coulddisgrace her by any trace of likeness51, as that nobody could evernow look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tiebetween us.
I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching52 her not to stoopbefore me in such affliction and humiliation53. I did so in broken,incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightenedme to see her at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--thatif it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take uponme to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. Itold her that my heart overflowed54 with love for her, that it wasnatural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change.
That it was not for me, then resting for the first time on mymother's bosom55, to take her to account for having given me life,but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the wholeworld turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it. Iheld my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and amongthe still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to benothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.
"To bless and receive me," groaned56 my mother, "it is far too late.
I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where itwill. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not seethe57 way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment Ihave brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it."Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual58 air ofproud indifference59 about her like a veil, though she soon cast itoff again.
"I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, notwholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouringcreature that I am!"These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, moreterrible in its sound than any shriek61. Covering her face with herhands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling62 thatI should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions63 or by anyendearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no,no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud anddisdainful everywhere else; she would be humbled64 and ashamed there,in the only natural moments of her life.
My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearlyfrantic. She had but then known that her child was living. Shecould not have suspected me to be that child before. She hadfollowed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. Wenever could associate, never could communicate, never probably fromthat time forth65 could interchange another word on earth. She putinto my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and saidwhen I had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake,since she asked nothing, as for her husband's and my own--I mustevermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she lovedme, in this agony in which I saw her, with a mother's love, sheasked me to do that, for then I might think of her with a greaterpity, imagining what she suffered. She had put herself beyond allhope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret untildeath or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour60 anddisgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary66 strugglealways; and no affection could come near her, and no human creaturecould render her any aid.
"But is the secret safe so far?" I asked. "Is it safe now, dearestmother?""No," replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It wassaved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident--to-morrow, any day.""Do you dread a particular person?""Hush67! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy68 ofthese tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I dread oneperson very much.""An enemy?""Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is SirLeicester Dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful withoutattachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, andreputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses.""Has he any suspicions?""Many.""Not of you?" I said alarmed.
"Yes! He is always vigilant69 and always near me. I may keep him ata standstill, but I can never shake him off.""Has he so little pity or compunction?""He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything buthis calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and theholding possession of such power as they give him, with no shareror opponent in it.""Could you trust in him?""I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many yearswill end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever theend be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts,nothing turns me.""Dear mother, are you so resolved?""I AM resolved. I have long outbidden folly70 with folly, pride withpride, scorn with scorn, insolence71 with insolence, and haveoutlived many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger,and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfullyas if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, butmy course through it is the same. I have but one; I can have butone.""Mr. Jarndyce--" I was beginning when my mother hurriedlyinquired, "Does HE suspect?""No," said I. "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!" And Itold her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story.
"But he is so good and sensible," said I, "that perhaps if he knew--"My mother, who until this time had made no change in her position,raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.
"Confide fully in him," she said after a little while. "You havemy free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injuredchild!- -but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me evenyet."I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now--for myagitation and distress72 throughout were so great that I scarcelyunderstood myself, though every word that was uttered in themother's voice, so unfamiliar73 and so melancholy74 to me, which in mychildhood I had never learned to love and recognize, had never beensung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing12 from, had never hada hope inspired by, made an enduring impression on my memory--I sayI explained, or tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr.
Jarndyce, who had been the best of fathers to me, might be able toafford some counsel and support to her. But my mother answered no,it was impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert thatlay before her, she must go alone.
"My child, my child!" she said. "For the last time! These kissesfor the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! Weshall meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must bewhat I have been so long. Such is my reward and doom75. If you hearof Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think ofyour wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath76 that mask!
Think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse,in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of whichit is capable! And then forgive her if you can, and cry to heavento forgive her, which it never can!"We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firmthat she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast,and with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, andwent from me into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet belowme in the sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces andturrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete reposewhen I first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate77 andunpitying watcher of my mother's misery78.
Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever beenin my sick chamber79, the necessity of guarding against the danger ofdiscovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. Itook such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I hadbeen crying, and I constrained80 myself to think of every sacredobligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected. Itwas not a little while before I could succeed or could evenrestrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so I was better andfelt that I might return. I went home very slowly and toldCharley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had beentempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that Iwas over-tired and would lie down. Safe in my own room, I read theletter. I clearly derived81 from it--and that was much then--that Ihad not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister,the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me whenI had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, withno desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigidsecrecy and had never again beheld82 my mother's face from within afew hours of my birth. So strangely did I hold my place in thisworld that until within a short time back I had never, to my ownmother's knowledge, breathed--had been buried--had never beenendowed with life--had never borne a name. When she had first seenme in the church she had been startled and had thought of whatwould have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on, butthat was all then.
What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It hasits own times and places in my story.
My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consumeeven its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural83 or bad inme that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever beenreared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been better andhappier for many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I hada terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of myown mother and of a proud family name. That I was so confused andshaken as to be possessed84 by a belief that it was right and hadbeen intended that I should die in my birth, and that it was wrongand not intended that I should be then alive.
These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out,and when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in theworld with my load of trouble for others. I was more than everfrightened of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was awitness, of the owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terriblemeaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge uponthe shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you arehers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you willunderstand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save awoman can." With them, those other words returned, "Pray dailythat the sins of others be not visited upon your head." I couldnot disentangle all that was about me, and I felt as if the blameand the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come down.
The day waned85 into a gloomy evening, overcast86 and sad, and I stillcontended with the same distress. I went out alone, and afterwalking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling onthe trees and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almosttouched me, was attracted to the house for the first time. PerhapsI might not have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame ofmind. As it was, I took the path that led close by it.
I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before theterrace garden with its fragrant87 odours, and its broad walks, andits well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful andgrave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, andwide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; andhow the trained moss88 and ivy89 grew about them, and around the oldstone pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling.
Then the way went by long lines of dark windows diversified90 byturreted towers and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stonelions and grotesque91 monsters bristled92 outside dens93 of shadow andsnarled at the evening gloom over the escutcheons they held intheir grip. Thence the path wound underneath a gateway94, andthrough a court-yard where the principal entrance was (I hurriedquickly on), and by the stables where none but deep voices seemedto be, whether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong massof ivy holding to a high red wall, or in the low complaining of theweathercock, or in the barking of the dogs, or in the slow strikingof a clock. So, encountering presently a sweet smell of limes,whose rustling95 I could hear, I turned with the turning of the pathto the south front, and there above me were the balustrades of theGhost's Walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's.
The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footstepsfrom being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags.
Stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, Iwas passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed thelighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly intomy mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of theGhost's Walk, that it was I who was to bring calamity96 upon thestately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then.
Seized with an augmented97 terror of myself which turned me cold, Iran from myself and everything, retraced98 the way by which I hadcome, and never paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and thepark lay sullen99 and black behind me.
Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had againbeen dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong andthankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming onthe morrow, I found a joyful100 letter, full of such lovinganticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not movedme; from my guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me totell Dame101 Durden, if I should see that little woman anywhere, thatthey had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping wasgoing to rack and ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, andthat everybody in and about the house declared it was not the samehouse and was becoming rebellious102 for her return. Two such letterstogether made me think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved andhow happy I ought to be. That made me think of all my past life;and that brought me, as it ought to have done before, into a bettercondition.
For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, orI should never have lived; not to say should never have beenreserved for such a happy life. I saw very well how many thingshad worked together for my welfare, and that if the sins of thefathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase didnot mean what I had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I wasas innocent of my birth as a queen of hers and that before myHeavenly Father I should not be punished for birth nor a queenrewarded for it. I had had experience, in the shock of that veryday, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilementsto the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my resolutions andprayed to be strengthened in them, pouring out my heart for myselfand for my unhappy mother and feeling that the darkness of themorning was passing away. It was not upon my sleep; and when thenext day's light awoke me, it was gone.
My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. Howto help myself through the intermediate time better than by takinga long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did notknow; so Charley and I and Stubbs--Stubbs saddled, for we neverdrove him after the one great occasion--made a long expeditionalong that road and back. On our return, we held a great review ofthe house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiestcondition, and had the bird out ready as an important part of theestablishment.
There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she couldcome, and in that interval103, which seemed a long one, I must confessI was nervously104 anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darlingso well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than onany one. I was not in this slight distress because I at allrepined--I am quite certain I did not, that day--but, I thought,would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she notbe a little shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a littleworse than she expected? Might she not look for her old Esther andnot find her? Might she not have to grow used to me and to beginall over again?
I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, andit was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was surebeforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And Iconsidered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings,which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself?
Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. Butto wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, wassuch bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again andmeet her.
So I said to Charley, '"Charley, I will go by myself and walk alongthe road until she comes." Charley highly approving of anythingthat pleased me, I went and left her at home.
But before I got to the second milestone105, I had been in so manypalpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it wasnot, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn backand go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear ofthe coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neitherwould, nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part ofthe way to avoid being overtaken.
Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nicething to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of itinstead of the best.
At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hourmore yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling inthe garden, "Here she comes, miss! Here she is!"I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hidmyself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heardmy darling calling as she came upstairs, "Esther, my dear, my love,where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!"She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, myangel girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, allaffection. Nothing else in it--no, nothing, nothing!
Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautifulgirl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovelycheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro likea child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of,and pressing me to her faithful heart.
收听单词发音 |
1
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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11
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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38
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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40
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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41
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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43
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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44
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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45
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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50
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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51
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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52
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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53
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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54
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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55
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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56
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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57
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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58
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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59
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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60
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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61
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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62
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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63
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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64
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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67
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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68
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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71
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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72
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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73
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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74
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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75
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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76
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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77
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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78
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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79
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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81
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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82
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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83
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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84
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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85
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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86
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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87
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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88
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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89
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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91
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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92
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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94
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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95
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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96
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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97
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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98
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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99
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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100
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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101
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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102
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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103
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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104
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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105
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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